


Not Like the Movies

by PAPERSK1N



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: F/M, Fake AH Crew, Fluff, Friendship, GTA AU, Meg is way too empathetic, Panic Attacks, Tiny bit of Angst, Title makes it sound way more angsty than it is, Trainee Nurse!Meg, Turnwood GTA Au, fem!Jack, some violence but its gta so, tiny bit of blood, turnwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-10 05:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5572363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PAPERSK1N/pseuds/PAPERSK1N
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meg's taking her usual route home through a dark and suspicious alleyway when she stumbles across a man in a leather jacket and a skull mask, bleeding out from a stab wound. The medical student and general empathetic in her drags him up to her apartment and fixes him up.</p><p>That (not-so) simple coincidence changes both their lives forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> First ever fully turnwood fic? What is happening to me???? (I promise Raywood is still #1 in my heart)

Not Like The Movies

 

 

 

 

Meg’s usual walking pace could best be described as languid. Meg walked in a way that let you know _yeah_ she’s trying to get somewhere, but she wasn’t ever in a rush. It was a small bop by the balls of her feet across a room. Happy and lazy and without focus.

If you saw her walking home, you’d think it was a different person.

Meg walked home at speed, coat wrapped tightly around her body as it grew closer to that time of year when by five or six o’clock it was dark and cold- or at least, cold by Los Santos’ standards. Her feet moved flatly and hurriedly, one skittish step after the other, bag clutched tightly and protectively by her side.

The most fearsome part of her journey home from the studio or school was the alleyway that would take her through to her building. It was less of a short-cut and more of a necessity, because the streets of Los Santos are awfully square and box-like and it’s more than easy to get turned around in-between the stone and gravel buildings. And sure- maybe the discomfort she went through every night was partly her own fault for renting an apartment on the much shadier (cheaper) part of town and _sure_ , she sometimes _would_ hear gunshots and pained shouts under her window… but that was just Los Santos, really. They didn’t call it the Crime-Capital of the USA without good reason.

The dark alley that lead to her building was the reason Meg took self-defence classes once a week. She had that alley to thank for her fast developing punch and her half decent box kick. If all bets were off, the dark alley made her thankful that her mother’s leaving-home present to her had been a rape alarm. An odd sentiment, but she’d learnt quickly that it felt safer having one than not.

Meg was taking her usual fast paced scuttle toward the sharp corner the alley took, but froze when she heard a pained grunt from the other side of the alley. The Los Santos college student in her (bombarded with the many unspoken rules of the city and stay-safe reminders from the moment she started freshmen orientation) made her want to turn around and run or maybe, if she was feeling brave- cross her fingers and hope it was just a druggie or a drunk collapsed and almost asleep.

However, the trainee nurse part of her conscience was quick to take over (as it always was) and made her stop, hold her breath, and curiously creep around the corner. She gasped quietly, only a tiny bit of pee escaping when she was met with the slumped form of a person, blood pouring from what seemed to be a pretty deep wound at his side. The scarlet blood was staining what she assumed was once a white t-shirt, bright red stain quickly growing as his breaths became more and more laboured. Some of the blood was dripping from below his t-shirt, across his belt and down onto the pocket of his cheap denim jeans.

The universe really wasn’t being kind to her on that particular night.

His face was covered by a dark skull mask, hiding any pained expression she could’ve used to guess how bad the wound was- but he seemed to know what he was doing, leather jacket balled up in his hand and pressed against the leaking crevice at his waist.

“Are you okay?” she whispered. The bleeding figure didn’t answer, just groaned repeatedly and weakly attempted to press more forcefully against the wound in their side. Meg cursed under her breath.

She just had to be so God-damn _empathetic._

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Dragging the masked mysterious man (was it a man? They were pretty big and heavy, but she couldn’t be sure) up to her apartment was easier than she thought it was going to be. Sure, whoever it was was heavy as _fuck_ , but the drug dealer who hung out around the alleyway entrance was more than happy to help her out.

Sure, he tried to sell her _molly_ afterwards (at a good price for a pretty face) which she politely refused (as she always did after having too many neurology classes on the effects amphetamines had on the brain). He wasn’t the pushy kind of drug dealer despite his tough looking exterior and facial tattoos and was more than happy to wish her a good night at the end of her hallway (no way was she letting him in on which apartment she lived in).

The masked figure, to his or her credit was pretty helpful in the whole ordeal, dragging their feet against the floor in a poor attempt to aid her as she huffed and channelled her inner core (something her personal trainer had been teaching her to do for a while) in order to drag them into the apartment and toss them down on the couch.

By the time the body hit the couch cushions they had turned frighteningly still, and Meg was rushing around her kitchen like a crazy person, rummaging through drawers filled with _crap_ as she searched frantically for her med kit. She was fucking committed now, she’d dragged the poor fucker up to her room and let him-or-her bleed all over her couch- if he-or-she was dying tonight, it was going to be on her for sure.

Meg found the med kit and rushed over to the unconscious body. She’d been trained in emergency response (second year was such a _drag_ ) so she knew the best thing to do would be to immediately treat the biggest wound. That involved checking over the guy (it was probably almost certainly a guy) for other wounds.

When awake, _Skeletor’s_ biggest concern seemed to be around his stomach so she was pretty confident his legs were fine. She took the silver scissors and tore through his shirt, ripping it off quickly. His torso was oddly nice- muscle definitely present (and _definitely_ a guy) with a faint dusting of hair paired with just the right amount of pudge to look comfortable. Apart from that, his body seemed far from normal as it was riddled with white and pink scars- some long deep gashes and others neat round scabby circles.

Meg wasn’t an idiot. A lot of the round scabby circles looked a lot like bullet holes. Perhaps it was a good idea that she didn’t immediately phone emergency services (not that they’d be able to do much, trying to call the LSPD or the Ambulance Service on a Friday night was like trying to get an ex girl-friend to call you back) as the last thing the guy needed right then was to be arrested.

The blood was still leaking from the wound around his abdomen, but it wasn’t as profuse as before which Meg really hoped was a good sign. Her hand shook (but only slightly) as she treated it with anti-septic, wincing as the unconscious body twitched slightly. He was feeling the pain which meant he was still alive, but hopefully it was dulled considerably.

Meg was more than happy about that. Her medical kit only gave her so much to work with, and she was pretty sure she couldn’t offer more than a bottle of vodka to help as an effective anaesthetic.

She worked quickly, as she had been taught to. Saving lives was something she studied and observed every day, between lectures and volunteer work at the LS hospital (there was a good reason she knew the best way to stitch up a stab wound) so it was easier than she’d thought it’d be too just zone out and focus on the direct problem.

It didn’t take much longer than ten minutes to get the guy completely sealed up- his body had stopped shaking, and even with the mask on, he looked oddly peaceful.

“There you go, buddy.” Meg said, awkwardly patting the stranger’s chest. “Now I’m gonna take your mask off. Just to check that you’re not hurt up there too.”

Why she was talking to the unconscious body of what was likely a hardened criminal, Meg wasn’t really sure. She felt oddly attached to the man laid out on her couch, even through his bleeding and groaning and eventual silence- something in her gut told her that he was a good guy. A bad guy- sure, only bad guys wore masks at night- but not the kind of bad guy who kidnapped kids or forced torture on people who didn’t deserve it. The kind of bad guy who could be a good guy too.

But then, maybe she was reading _way_ too far into things.

Her fingers scratched against what felt like a short beard as she reached for the mask, pulling it up from his chin and pushing it back over his face. He was quite handsome, she quickly noticed. He had a head of thick brown hair and a straight nose, soft jawline, short trimmed beard and oddly pretty eyelashes. His face had barely been touched, so it seemed, a small bruise blooming at his cheek and a faint fading scar across the left side of his chin

“Looks like you got lucky.” She said quietly, fingers absentmindedly stroking across the man’s cheekbone. “I really hope you wake up soon. I don’t want to explain to my professor that I can’t come in because an almost-dead guy is asleep on my couch.”

Talking to herself (or unconscious bodies) was an awful habit she had and always refused to get rid of. She muttered her musings over the guy and his life and what could’ve possible earnt him his place in the alley as she gathered her tools back up and washed the blood of her hands. She threw away the man’s torn white t-shirt, briefly considering burning it before remembering that she lived in _Los Santos_ , where a bloodied T-shirt in a garbage disposal was as common as a fox looting through the trash.

It’d be fine, she told herself. The unmasked stranger would wake up soon. Probably.

Maybe.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Ryan woke up, the first thing he saw was purple. Purple swam in his vision, vibrant and impossible to ignore. Purple attacked his irises for a few prolonged seconds before the dull throb of pain washed over him.

 _Oh yes_ , he thought. _I’ve been stabbed._

A faint groan escaped his lips before he could retract it and his heavy eyelids pushed themselves open as Purple moved around, until eventually, a face came into focus above him. Heart-shaped and soft looking, clear tanned skin and eyes the colour of a copper penny caught in a sunbeam, wide and blinking and oddly enough- _worried_.

It’d been a long time since someone looked at him worriedly.

“Good!” Purple’s voice said. “You’re awake!”

She tucked the hanging string of her vibrant hair behind her ear and Ryan groaned again- involuntary due to the fact that as he shifted to sit up he felt the familiar tug of fresh stiches holding his skin together.

“Where am I?” he asked groggily as Purple sat back on the other cushion of the short couch, legs tucked underneath her and hands wringing over an empty mug.

“Los Santos.” She said. Ryan couldn’t help but roll his eyes at that.

“Yeah, I know that- I just mean where exactly? Last thing I remember I was bleeding out in an alleyway and now I’m…” he looked around the room, an aesthetic blogger’s nightmare apartment with vibrant colours and inspirational quotes strewn across the walls, stacks of DVD’s and PlayStation games by a ten-year-old television, woollen rugs tossed across bare wooden floors. “-In a college kid’s apartment…?” his eyes fell on a detailed poster of the human form above the metal fire. “Medical student’s apartment…” he corrected. “Sorry.”

“You guessed all that about me by my apartment?” Purple asked, a white smile falling on her lips. Ryan tried to ignore the fact that it made her look incredibly attractive, and nodded. “Wow. What are you, fucking Sherlock or something?”

“Not quite.” Ryan winced, pushing to try and sit up further. “Whereabouts in Los Santos is this?”

“Downtown. I found you in the alley I take home.”

“You live on the Remington estate?” Ryan frowned, looking around for a window. “You’re just asking to bump into a wounded criminal.” He muttered, staring out at the city below them.

To credit her, Purple’s slim fingers only tensed slightly around the mug in her hands when he mentioned the word criminal. A chilly draft from the cracked window floated across the room and made his bare chest tighten slightly. Involuntarily, he let out a shiver.

“Want a blanket, Mr Wounded Criminal?” she asked, a hint of teasing dripping from her sugary-sweet tone. Ryan sighed in mild frustration, but nodded and accepted the woollen blanket that was then draped across his shoulders and he shifted to wrap it tightly around himself.

“Thank you.” He mumbled bitterly. The same amused smile returned to her lips as she stood in front of him for a moment, before settling down on the coffee table so she could face him directly. Ryan’s hand wandered down to the stitched up wound at his abdomen, but she leant forwards, slapping it away.

“Don’t touch that- you’ll end up pulling them out. I did them kind of quickly considering you were bleeding out over my couch.”

Ryan frowned. “You did this?”

“I’m a medical student, remember?” she smirked. “I walked past you on my way home from a photoshoot and I couldn’t just leave you there.”

“Photoshoot?”

Purple’s expression quickly turned from smug to faintly embarrassed, a light dusting of pink colouring her cheeks. “I sort of do some modelling on the side.” She admitted. “Medical school’s expensive and it pays the bills so…” she trailed off, refusing to meet his eye. Ryan immediately felt guilty for making her feel uncomfortable at his rigorous questioning. She had just saved his life, after all.

“I understand…” he nodded. “I used to model.”

Purple looked back up to his eyes and grinned. “Oh really?” she asked. “Was that before or after you earned that big ass scar on your shoulder blade and the fading nick across your chin?” she reached forwards confidently and ran the smooth pad of her thumb across the knife wound.

It was then Ryan’s turn to blush, red spreading from his cheeks down his neck and faintly onto his chest. Something about a pretty young medical student seeing him lounged around with no shirt on made him a little anxious and he pulled the blanket tighter around himself.

“Sorry… I had to take your shirt off and give you a once over to make sure you weren’t bleeding anywhere else-” she leant back. “-your shirt was pretty bloody. I mean- I could try and recover it from the trash if you want- I make costumes and I can sew pretty well…”

“-No, it’s fine. Throw it out.” Ryan cut her off with a wave of his hand. An awkward silence was quick to follow, only the suddenly loud ticking of the cheap plastic clock on the wall filling the room. “Uh, thank you- for you know. Not letting me die.” He eventually said. Purple smiled at him.

“It’s okay.”

“I should get out of your way-” Ryan tried to pull his body up from the couch where he had been laying, but Purple reached forwards and pushed him back down gently, but with enough force so that he knew she wasn’t to be messed with.

“You take more than ten steps and you’re gonna end up ripping your stiches out buddy.” She warned him. “You’re staying right where you are for at least the rest of today.”

“But-”

“-no buts!” It shocked him how easy it felt to let her, a total stranger, take charge of him. He wasn’t sure what it was, but something kept his mouth shut and his butt firmly on the couch. Maybe she knew a little of what she was talking about. “Now that I’m convinced you’re not a psycho serial killer I fully intend on keeping an eye on you for the next 24 hours, just to make sure you don’t have any internal damage or anything awful like that.” Ryan’s mouth went a little dry at the phrase _psycho serial killer_ , but he quickly decided that bringing up his official kill count wouldn’t really be appropriate, given the circumstances.

He nodded in agreement and sat back a little more comfortably on her couch. She knew her stuff; he could give her that. He’d had internal bleeding before- and it hadn’t been fun.

“How comes you didn’t take me to the hospital?” he asked, as innocently as he could once she handed him a hot cup of coffee to shake him awake a little. Purple smirked at him.

“Come on, I know I’m just a trainee nurse slash part-time model, but I’m not stupid.” She scoffed. “If you’re bleeding out in an alley on the bad side of Los Santos, chances are you’ve got a criminal record and no health insurance.”

“Alright.” He raised an eyebrow, impressed. “You’re pretty smart, kid.”

“Don’t call me kid!” she glared at him. “I’m twenty-eight!”

“And I’m thirty-four.” He laughed. “You’re a kid to me.”

“Whatever. You’re not even that old!” she laughed along with him, high and musical and downright enchanting as she sat back down on the coffee table, staring at him with those anime eyes. “What’s your name, by the way- if you don’t mind me asking?” she sipped from a tall glass of orange juice.

Ryan hesitated, as he always did when it came to giving out personal information. It had taken him a few days to let Geoff see him without his mask on, and here he was shirtless _and_ mask-less in a medical student apartment, sipping coffee that he hadn’t even checked for cyanide like some… _amateur_.

“…I’m Meg.” She said, after a few beats of silence. She’d clearly noticed his hesitation and the coffee was pretty good and not at all cyanide-y. Maybe she was safe.

“Ryan.” He finally admitted. “My name is Ryan.”

“Cool. Nice name- Ryan.” She nodded. “Very… very you.”

He huffed in amusement. “You don’t even know me.” He pointed out. Purple- or Meg (he should’ve probably stopped referring to her by her hair colour in his head by now) shrugged.

“I’m good at reading people.” She said. Ryan didn’t press for more than that, just nodded in a silent gesture of belief. Ryan didn’t know what exactly it was, but something sustained that belief in Meg. Something made him crave the feeling of trust in her presence, and he’d only known her (consciously) for an hour.

The only possible conclusions he could draw from that, were that she was either a hypnotist, psychologist or wizard.

Perhaps even all three.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Meg didn’t seem so bad. She checked his stitches and gave the wound a once over with antiseptic (that hurt like _fuck_ ), she even gave him her ex-boyfriend’s _Metallica_ t-shirt so he didn’t have to hang around in her apartment shirtless for the day. Then, she handed over her phone and politely left the room so he could make a phone call to his ‘friend’ to tell them he was ‘safe’ (as if he was _ever_ really safe in LS. How laughable a thought.)

“So,” she asked as the episode of _Friends_ they’d been watching ended. “What kind of crew are you in?”

Ryan was silent, playing with his thumbs in his lap. She quirked a perfectly arched brow at him in amusement, nudging him with her shoulder playfully (when had he let her get so close?). Ryan shrugged.

Meg rolled her eyes. “Come on! Creepy mask, multiple healed bullet wounds- you must be in a street crew of some kind!” she exclaimed. “What is it- Game Grumps? Screw Attack?...”

Ryan hesitated again, as Meg’s sunflower eyes lit up with excitement as she lowered her voice to a whisper and squeaked out- “ _RWBY_?”

“Do I _look_ like a teenage girl with a bad-ass modded out weapon that’s twice my side?” came his sarcastic response. Meg scoffed.

“Fair point.”

“I’m in the Fake AH Crew.” He admitted. Meg’s entire body stiffened beside him, and he cursed in his head. It’d all been going _so fucking_ _well_ until that point, and although he had no intentions of pursuing their vague relationship any further once he walked out the door- something in his chest tugged a little uncomfortably when he came to terms with the fact that she would likely want nothing to do with him past that point.

“I’m sorry.” He sighed, when she continued to say nothing. Painfully, he struggled to his feet. “I’ll leave.”

“No!” Meg took his hand and pulled him back down. Ryan tried not the blush at the feeling of her slender fingers hooked into his. She didn’t pull her hand away when he sat back down so he chose not to either and turned to face her with a contrite expression. “I’m sorry.” She said. “It’s just a bit of a shock, obviously. Everyone around here is terrified of the Fake AH Crew.”

“We’re not _that_ bad,” he tried. Meg gave him a punted look and he sighed in defeat. “Alright. I suppose we are. But you’ve got to be bad to survive here, kid.”

“Don’t call me kid.” She reminded him, but the smile that grew on her face was unmissable. “Old man.” She nudged him again.

Ryan allowed himself to feel safe and content (for once) and a smile grew across his face. “Thank you, Meg. Again- for not letting me die.”

Her eyes sparkled as the wide smile faded into a subtle smirk. “Doesn’t matter who you are- I’d never leave someone without a fighting chance.” She said. Ryan looked away.

“Keep thinking that way, and you’ll make a good doctor one day.” He nodded vaguely in her direction, refusing to stare back into the honey trap that was her eyes. Meg’s cheeks flushed for the fourth time that day, and it made his gut feel warm (and not just from the possible internal bleeding).

“You think?” she asked him, subtle smirk shifting into a coy grin. Ryan bit his lip, nodding. Meg smiled, and rested her head against his shoulder. “Thanks Ryan.” She mumbled. “You’re not so bad, for a hardened criminal.”

Something in Ryan’s long dead and unfeeling heart lurched when she said that, and from that precise moment- he knew the truth.

He was _fucked_.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg meets the Fake AH Crew under some pretty dire circumstances. Meg and Ryan get their shit together.

Part Two

 

 

Being stabbed is _not_ an indescribable feeling.

It isn’t poetic or ‘strangely beautiful’. There is no moment where the pain fades, no clarity or sudden realisation that _this_ _is_ _it_. This is your life- and it is slowly coming to its end. Being stabbed is more like a running stream of panicked consciousness, starting as a confused mumble of: _is that a knife pressed to my gut?_ Turned into a mused holler of: _holy fucking shit it is it’s a knife and it’s in me and it hurts and I can’t feel and I can’t see and holy fucking shit it **hurts.**_

Meg learned this truth the hard way, trapped in that God-Awful alley she’d always resented as some random hobo rooted through her pockets and snatched her wallet. Thankfully, her phone was in the back of her jeans, unreachable to him considering she had collapsed on her back, bumping her head painfully on the concrete.

She was dying- she knew that. She knew exactly how long it would take for the right amount of blood to gush out the wound at her gut, and she knew exactly how long the pain would last. She was dying- but that didn’t mean she had to die. For once, time was on her side.

Once the man was long out of sight, Meg choked out a few tears, desperately reaching for her phone from her back pocket. She could feel the crack from where it had hit the floor along with the rest of her body, once smooth glass feeling jagged across her fingers. However, it still worked, and pulling up Ryan’s number despite the rapid rate her vision was fading was easier than impossible.

“Meg? Hello…?”

“I’ve-” pain surged through her body, starting from the gut and blossoming across every inch. Ryan’s worried voice was coming through the speaker into her ear, asking a thousand questions a mile a minute, but she couldn’t focus on listening. “Stabbed.” She managed to choke out. “Alley- Ryan… _help_.”

It wasn’t like a movie, where suddenly her world went black and then Ryan’s face was above hers.  She laid in the alley for what could’ve been hours but was likely around ten minutes, desperately clutching at the wound with her bare hand, knowing any effort to apply pressure and keep the blood as close to its entry point as possible would work in her advantage.

Her wound wasn’t as deep as Ryan’s had been, those many months ago. She wasn’t loosing blood as rapidly (not that it didn’t _fucking hurt_ ) but it was still escaping. _Blood outside of body_ \- one of the five signs of death rang through her head.

Not that she was going to die or anything. Not as footsteps came dashing through the alley, like a prince on horseback. Suddenly, Meg remembered being a kid, watching sleeping beauty and wondering why she didn’t just _wake up_. Someone was talking above her, a low tremor that felt like Ryan, but she couldn’t be sure with the way her eyes were dipping. She felt her body be lifted off the ground, wincing and bracing herself for the pain that came, but surprisingly it didn’t.

Did that mean she was _actually_ dying? Didn’t she have more time?

Then, just like a movie- Meg’s vision really did fade to black as her eyes fell closed.

* * *

 

Stitches _hurt_ \- everything hurt really. Her head hurt from where it had smacked the concrete (not that’d she’d been in any state to treat her concussion whilst she was bleeding out) and her back hurt from how it had grazed the ground. Even her face hurt, it was cut and bruised across her cheek she quickly realised, likely from where her face had fallen and taken some of the impact off her skull.

Her vision was still blurred, but Meg assumed her glasses had been broken. She could get new ones, no big deal. She was actually _alive_ \- no longer laid down bleeding out, which was more than a relief. She was also in bed. A bed that was not her own.

“Meg? Are you awake?”

That was right- Ryan, her prince charming had galloped to the castle on horseback and saved her from the brink of death. He’d sprinted into the alley on foot, skull mask still on and scooped her up, tossing her into the passenger seat of a sports car and dragged her home (wherever it was he called home. Was it just this room? Or was there more on the other side?) to stitch her up and let her rest.

“You saved me.” She mumbled, voice hoarse as she struggled to sit up without tearing the line of threat at her abdomen. Suddenly, the room was hot, and she wanted the heavy dark blankets off of her. Everything in Ryan’s room was dark- the walls, the bed, the sheets. She would really have to let him know about interior design- maybe even take him round Ikea when she was feeling better.

“I did.” Ryan stepped further into the room, jacket in one hand and mask in the other. However, he dropped both and walked over to the bed, hovering around with his eyes fixed intently on hers. It was almost creepy- the impossible, indescribable blue of his eyes bearing into what felt like her soul as he stood above her. Meg crossed her legs and patted the empty space beside her on the bed. Awkwardly, Ryan sat on it.

“Your stitch work is pretty neat.” She commented, looking down at her bare stomach where the neat red line (who used _red_ thread for stitches?) sat next to her belly button. “Seriously. I’m impressed. Why red though?”

Ryan smiled at that, eyes drawn to her belly only for a second before he corrected himself and they darted upwards to the shorter strands of red around her face. Meg shivered under his gaze, suddenly very aware of the nakedness of her torso. How hadn’t she noticed she was shirtless before? Ryan had probably cut it off whilst she was bleeding out and now he was being the gentleman and not looking.

She had noticed this fact too late, a wobbly ‘thank you’ already slipping from her lips as a few tears escaped her eyes. Ryan looked like a concerned puppy, and her brain didn’t have much involvement nor regard for nakedness as she whispered, “Can I have a hug?”

And who was he to deny her that? Ryan held her gently, wary of her stitches but it was fine, because his hands were warm against her bare skin and he smelt like aftershave and gunpowder. Meg wiped her tears with a shaken laugh once they pulled away, and uncomfortably dragged her knees up to her chest in a poor attempt to pretend she wasn’t sitting there in her underwear in the middle of _The Vagabond_ ’s bed.

“Your…” Ryan awkwardly cleared his throat as his eyes fixated on the graze on her knee. “Your clothes, had to be burned. Sorry. No evidence and all that.”

“It’s fine.” She nodded. “Just… do you maybe have anything here? Wherever… here is?” she looked around the room again, darkness having lifted slightly by some unknown force (maybe Ryan just carried light in his eyes everywhere he went) making it feel a little less intimidating.

“Promise you won’t freak out?”

Meg frowned. “Promise.” She lied. There was no promising she wouldn’t freak out- not _ever_. She’d been stabbed, for fucks sake. She’d been fucking stabbed, and internally, she was _really_ freaking out.

“You’re in my bedroom in the Fake AH Crew’s penthouse, owned by Geoff Ramsey.”

The panic attack had been long coming- considering she had just been stabbed and had experienced a really fucking close brush with death. And not the kind she could call her mom and cry about unless she wanted to be lovingly kidnapped and forcefully escorted back home. “Sorry mom, I got stabbed by a hobo but the masked criminal I’d saved earlier this year and still been in regular contact with came and saved me, and now I’m almost naked in his bed which happens to be in the penthouse of the most feared crime lord in the whole of the west coast.” Didn’t really seem like the kind of conversation she could’ve had over the phone.

Ryan stayed with her through the whole experience, wiped her tears, hugged her gently and then wiped her bleeding stitches and handed her one of his plain navy t-shirts (Why did he have six of the same t-shirt anyway?)

He’d then left briefly, but returned with a pair of basketball shorts that belonged to Ray- who was apparently pretty tiny and would be the closest to her size. She only knew the Fake AH Crew by the codenames she saw on the news (nerdy Ryan who wore dad shoes was _Vagabond-_ adorable) so she didn’t really want to know which criminal psychopath was the littlest (although, let’s face it- it was probably _BROWNMAN_.)

Ryan had to leave by the time she’d been dressed and calmed down, but his room had an Xbox and a PlayStation and Netflix and pretty much anything else she could need. He didn’t specifically say _don’t-leave-this-room_ but it was pretty heavily implied by the way he told her to _‘stay rested’_ as he dragged the skull mask over his face and grabbed a pretty impressive looking knife out of a drawer.

Meg was human. Netflix was great but once you’d seen one episode of _OITNB_ you’d kind of seen them all. Playing video games wasn’t the same when half of them revolved around violence and she’d sort of just been stabbed. Plus, there was the crippling factor that Ryan’s clock read 22:05 and she’d been stabbed on the way home, before she’d eaten dinner.

She was human. She was hungry… and she was really curious what exactly the Fake AH Crew’s top secret Los Santos penthouse had to offer.

* * *

 

Thankfully, the penthouse was empty- not an insane criminal in sight, just some really nice interior décor and a big wall of giant fucking floor to ceiling windows, glass that looked almost five centimetres thick and polished within an inch of its’s life.

She’d been admiring the view- even with her fuzzy, glasses-less vision- of the vehicles dashing what looked to be a million miles away, helicopters dancing just above her, surrounded by the countless skyscrapers. Weirdly, she felt safe- hanging at the edge of the sky all alone.

Or, at least mostly alone.

“So you’re the girl Ryan’s staring at his phone smiling about all God-damn day, huh?”

Meg physically flinched, wincing when she felt her stitches tug a little. The man behind her in a crisp dark tuxedo and a frightening moustache softened immediately, walking briskly across the room to stand beside her with a hand on her shoulder sympathetically.

“Sorry,” he instantly apologised. “You didn’t pull anything out, did you? I just wanted to be cool and dramatic… I really didn’t mean to scare you.”

Meg allowed herself to smile, pain slowly fading with help from the prescription (could criminals get prescriptions? Whatever the pills Ryan had left her were, they made the whole ‘freshly stabbed’ feeling fade out pretty quickly) “I’m fine.” She nodded.

“Good.” Geoff nodded back. “Let’s try this again, I’m Geoff Ramsey.” He held out his hand in a non-threating manner, and Meg accepted the handshake (which was firm, but not as bone crushing as his moustache would suggest.) “Meg Turney.”

“I know who you are.” Geoff smirked. “Ryan will _not_ shut up about you. I see you’ve dyed your hair back to red, very nice. He probably misses the purple, though.” He teased.

Meg felt her cheeks heat up at the idea of Ryan telling his super-scary criminal friends about her when they texted each other. “We’re just friends.” She shook her head, eyes as far from Geoff’s icicles as they could get. Instead, she focused on the city below, letting the blurred lights of the cars calm her. “I saved his life, he saved mine- you know.”

“That’s how it starts,” Geoff scoffed. “You think- what’s a little life-saving between friends? Then, you feel like you owe each other forever- you feel like you can never be far from that person and be _safe_ at the same time.”

“You sound like you know this personally?”

“I saved someone’s life once. Worst mistake I’ve ever made- now the kid wont fucking leave me alone. Love him to death, but you know- now I sort of can’t live without him. Dangerous in this business.”

“Really?” Meg asked. Geoff nodded.

“Love will fucking kill you in Los Santos. Guaranteed.” He shook his head, gaze following hers across the city as a small smile broke on his face. “Still,” he added, looking back to her. Geoff’s eyes were like sticky fly-traps, unable to pull away from. “It’s always worth it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She smiled, just as her stomach rumbled loudly. Thankfully, Geoff didn’t look too taken aback, and just laughed.

“Whatever you want, order it in. My treat.” He handed out his phone, offering it to her. Meg smiled and thanked him, letting the crime boss help her walk over to the couch where she could sit before pulling a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and handing it to her.

“Consider it a just-got-stabbed gift. From me to you.” He smirked.

By the time the pizza arrived, it was still just the two of them, sitting in front of the idle television as they talked like old friends. Geoff just had that air about him- someone who was so easy to talk to and spill your secrets to that Meg found herself having to hold back on really personal details more than once.

“You have a really nice place here.” She said through a mouthful of Chicago deep dish (her decision, prompted by the fact that Geoff apparently had ties to the best deep dish place in town) “Seriously. Like a fucking home design catalogue exploded.”

“Jack loves all that interior design shit.” Geoff waved his hand, knocking over an expensive looking table lamp with a shrug. “It’s how she unwinds after a heist- buys something we don’t need. Does a pretty good job though.”

“Is Jack your…” Meg trailed off, unsure the appropriateness of the question bubbling on her tongue. The way Geoff talked about his fellow crew members with such bitter fondness (Ryan included) it could’ve been safe to assume he was in a relationship with any of them.

Geoff only smirked at her. “Kid. I’ll tell you now- things get more than a little complicated around here. We don’t label things.”

“I can dig that.” Meg nodded. “To each their own.”

“Don’t worry,” Geoff grinned. “Ryan’s totally on the market.”

“Whatever.” She blushed, rolling her eyes. “How did you get into all this?” she gestured around vaguely. “This glamorous life?”

Geoff leant back against the white couch with his feet propped up on the glass coffee table, bright yellow socks catching the hanging light above them. “Isn’t that just the question?” He sighed. “To be honest- I don’t even remember. It’s just something I’ve always done- fuck around, get paid for it. I live lavishly, with jets and fancy penthouses and nice clothes-” he shook his foot so his trousers rode further up his ankles, “You see these socks- they cost me fifteen dollars! One day, I bought fifteen dollar socks, and I’ve never gone back. Changed my entire life!”

“A pair of socks?” Meg quirked an eyebrow. “Socks changed your whole life?”

“Yeah!” Geoff nodded. “I don’t know what happened, but one day- I bought myself fifteen dollar socks and I thought… you know what- I don’t want to go another day, ever again- where I have to wear shitty two dollar socks, or even nice ten dollar socks. I want to wear fancy fucking fifteen-dollar socks like these, every day- for the rest of my life.” He shrugged. “And now… I do. I don’t know how it happened- just one day I thought robbing somewhere might be fun, I met Jack… the rest just, fell into place. It was all a manner of knowing the right people at the right times, you know. Picking my battles and shit.”

“And now you’re a household name!”

“You could say that.” He smiled. “It’s a good life.”

Before Meg could reply, a noise came from the penthouse door. The beeping of a key code rang through the house, Geoff’s lazy gaze barely casted towards the source for a second as Ryan walked into the room, skull-mask in one hand and something familiar in the other.

“My wallet…” Meg said quietly. Suddenly, she wasn’t that hungry anymore and set her pizza down on the Ying-Yang coffee table that Geoff had been resting his feet on. “You got my wallet…” she repeated as Ryan approached the couch and set the wallet back into her hands. “I-how?!” She rifled through it briefly, relieved to find that everything was in perfect order and nothing had been taken out.

Geoff scoffed, catching her attention. “Yeah Rye-bread…” he smirked. “How’d you get the lady’s wallet back?”

Ryan glared at Geoff with such a ferocity, Meg felt herself tense. However, Geoff didn’t look bothered- a shit eating grin creeping across his face as he stuffed another bite on pizza into his mouth. Ryan’s steely slant travelled over to her, instantly softening when it fell on her face.

“The details aren’t important.” He said. “That guy won’t be bothering you ever again.”

Meg swallowed around the thick lump that had suddenly formed in her throat and the lingering taste of pizza soured on her tongue. Questions raced through her mind, but she watched the news and followed the Fake AH Crew’s wrong-doings enough to know that she probably didn’t want to know the answer.

“Come on Meg, you should get back in bed anyway. The meds are helping, but give it a few hours and that’s going to hurt like a bitch.” Ryan nodded back into the direction of his room, and Meg felt her skin flush at his sudden assertiveness. She wasn’t sure if it had to do with the likely murder of the guy who had robbed her or Geoff’s snarky knowing presence, but Ryan had evolved in front of her very eyes into this _Vagabond_ character she’d only ever seen after ten on the TV News.

And weirdly… she kind of liked it.

Meg hopped up from her seat and said a quick goodbye to Geoff who smirked at them and mumbled something that sounded like ‘ _You kids have fun’_ under his breath. Ryan was silent until the door to his bedroom closed, encasing them in darkness again.

He reached out for the light-switch, just as Meg tripped over a toolbox placed half-hazardly on the ground. He lurched out, catching her round the waist just in time so she could stay upright, slender hands gripping onto his forearms desperately.

“Woah, sorry about that.” He apologised, quickly releasing her once she was steady. “I should… probably move that. I’m sorry.” Ryan fumbled awkwardly, kicking the bulky box under the bed with a flustered expression. “Sorry. Again.”

Meg smiled. “It’s fine, Ryan- honestly. I think tripping over a toolbox was the last of my worries today.” She sat down on the bed, curling her knees back up to herself without thinking as she scooted over towards the wall, allowing space for Ryan to sit beside her. He lingered by the bed silently for a few seconds, as if he was considering his options with the upmost precision.

Eventually, with a short sigh he peeled off his leather jacket and dumped it on the floor, clambering on the bed beside her. He reached underneath his bed silently, before pulling out two SNES wireless modded controllers.

He handed one over to her, saying nothing more than, “I remember you said you liked Mario.”

They played for the best part of an hour, atmosphere devoid of awkwardness and tension. Meg sort of forgot about the fact that Ryan may or may not have murdered the homeless looking guy who robbed her and Ryan tried and failed to forget about the image of Meg without clothes on sitting in his bed like she’d always been there.

“Hey,” Meg asked, as _Game Over_ flashed on the screen. Ryan turned to face her, prompting her to speak with a quirk of his eyebrow. “Does uh… does your crew maybe… need like- like a medic?”

Ryan shut his eyes, teeth clamped on his lips as he groaned quietly “How long did you spend with Geoff?”

“It wasn’t… just- he’s a nice guy, alright?” She shrugged, jabbing his thigh with her controller. “And you’re nice too. Really nice- you’re the fucking best Ryan. You saved me... and I want to be able to help you out. Like I owe you-”

“-Meg, you don’t owe me anything, ever, okay?” Ryan shook his head, tossing his controller down to the end of the bed so he could pull her hand into his. “You saved my life, which I am thankful for. I saved your life, not because I thought I owed your or anything like that- I saved your life because I…” he choked on his words slightly, clearing his throat as his face reddened. “I… I care about you, a lot.” He said. “And now- I just want to keep you safe.”

“But if I was a part of the crew- I’d always be safe. I’d have you and Geoff and the other guys to look out of me.”

“It doesn’t always work like that.” Ryan sighed. He ran his thumb over hers softly. “No matter how much I would want you here- this apartment is probably _the_ most dangerous place for you to be. I don’t want you to get dragged into a life like this Meg.”

“But Ryan-”

“-No.” he cut her off, teeth gritted. “It isn’t happening, and that’s the end of it. I’m sorry.”

He made it all sound so final and so decided, that Meg couldn’t muster up the words to argue with him. Ryan’s eyes were hard and gave no emotion away, but his hands caressed hers so softly that she couldn’t help but melt and keep her mouth shut.

Ryan seemed to know what he was talking about, being a prominent figure in the crime industry for years. Maybe the gang life wasn’t quite as glamorous as Geoff had made it out to be.

* * *

 

Despite her repeated resistance based on the sheer lavishness of the gift, Meg had found herself settled in the grand apartment exactly one floor below the Fake AH Crew penthouse courtesy of Ryan within a week. The Vagabond didn’t take no for an answer, insisting he wanted her as close as possible and in an environment where nothing awful like that would ever happen again as the other crew members looked on with smirks.

She conceded the fight eventually and moved in, only allowing Geoff to pay half of her rent (a high-rise apartment in the centre of the city was a little out of her price range, but she didn’t need _charity_ ). The place was nice, even if her homely artefacts from the first place she’d ever owned took away from the general _Art Deco_ feel of the place.

But if that was what she needed for it to become truly _hers_ , then that was what she had. The stab wound healed nicely (Ryan’s stitch-work was almost as neat as hers) and over the course of a few months, she found herself hanging out upstairs with Ryan and the rest of his crew more and more.

Geoff and her got on like a house on fire from the moment they had shared pizza, a bonded love of expensive drinks and an endless fondness of Geoff’s abrasive personality. Geoff took her out for exorbitant dinners and cocktails and used the rest of his free time pushing her closer and closer to Ryan. Eventually, when Jack grabbed him by the ear he would let off.

Meg _loved_ Jack. Never had she met a woman so effortlessly authoritative in her life. The news liked to make it seem that Geoff was the most feared crime lord the United States had ever seen, but he didn’t have a patch on Jack. Meg had seen real fear in Geoff’s eyes when Jack had come home to find him drunkenly painting one of the walls. Jack knew how to get shit done, and had the whole crew cowering under her.

In reality, she was also a giant softie and took Meg for _Girl’s Days_ and bought her expensive clothes and gave her relationship advice. “I know you and Ryan are just friends, but he’s been holding a torch for you for a while now. I won’t force you into anything you’re not comfortable with or ready for, but go easy on him, okay?” she said over lunch one day. It was said so casually and caringly, like a spot of sisterly advice over a stack of ribs but Meg had seen the threat sparking in Jack’s eyes that day. _Don’t hurt my boys,_ they said.

Aside from the two bosses and Ryan, Meg got on well with _The Lads_ : Michael, Gavin and Ray. They were always good to play video games with or talk about stupid nineties shit that she missed and Ryan couldn’t remember because he’d apparently had no fucking childhood. The three boys teased her mercilessly about her relationship with Ryan but it was all done with love and affection. Meg had quickly learned that that was Michael, Gavin and Ray’s only way of showing love, be it for her, the others or themselves as a group. She wasn’t completely sure on the relationship status between them, but the love they shared for each other was clear to see. Michael and Gavin bickered constantly, driving Geoff up the wall- and Ray was always quick to shut either of them down with a snarky remark or obnoxious joke, and even though on the surface they could’ve looked like sworn enemies, they were back to laughing and cuddling and watching movies the following night.

The Fake AH Crew were the single strangest group of people Meg had ever met.

* * *

 

The Fake AH Crew, Meg learned, didn’t live off of grandiose and over-the-top bank heists with intercoms and dynamite and fancy blueprints. Those were reserved for special occasions- like birthdays and Christmas. The gangs bread and butter was smaller scale jobs and robberies usually confined to two-to-four person teams, drug deals, drug deals gone conveniently wrong, jewellery snatches and other petty crimes.

Michael and Gavin had left that day, and they hadn’t reported back twelve hours later. They weren’t answering their phones, they weren’t reporting to safe houses- and even more worryingly, they weren’t being reported about on the news.

“They’ll be fine,” Ray said to Geoff, who was gripping the control with white knuckles as he flicked through the countless news stations that streamed to his three-thousand-dollar television. His eyes flitted over to the wall to ceiling the windows across the room. “They’re Michael and Gavin.” He told Geoff and himself. “They’re always fine.”

At that moment, the door flew open and Michael sprinted in, Gavin cradled in his arms as limp as a ragdoll. As the crew members desperately rushed over to help, Michael only looked to Meg.

“Please.” His legs buckled as he fell to the floor. “Help him.”

Michael only needed a few stitches and to stay awake to fight off his concussion, but Gavin had been shot in the shoulder which required bullet fishing and pressure and intricate tricky stitching. Gavin had passed out (thankfully from pain rather than blood loss) on the way home so he didn’t seem to feel much of it- but Meg felt every tug of threat for him as she fixed up the guy she was really starting to look at as a good friend.

“Is he okay?” Michael asked later that night, as Gavin slept in his bed peacefully with Meg watching over him to check his wound wasn’t still bleeding or infected. She nodded sleepily, as the digital clock hit two am beside her.

“Thank you, so much.” Michael said quietly. “Seriously Meg. I don’t know what I’d do without him. I owe you, big time.”

“You don’t owe me.” Meg smiled. “It was my pleasure. He’s my friend- you both are.”

“I know.” Michael nodded, but he wasn’t looking at Meg at all. His eyes were transfixed on the steady rise and fall of Gavin’s chest. “Still,” he approached the bed, and stroked Gavin’s hair. “Thank you. Remember the pink Ferrari you were asking about? Consider it yours.”

Meg laughed softly at that, and Michael grinned at her. “Go on, get out of here. Get some sleep or talk to Ryan- he’s stressing out about you, as fucking usual. I’ll stay here with him.”

“Goodnight Michael.”

Meg wandered the penthouse in search for Ryan, but ultimately found him in the place he spent the least of his time- his bedroom. It was dark, but as she cracked open the door and peeked her head round, the streak of light from the hallway made his eyes crack open.

“I’m sorry, were you sleeping?” she asked.

“No.” Ryan sat up quickly, nodding for her to step inside. “Come here, what’s up?”

“Nothing.” She smiled through the darkness, hopping over the toolbox and clambering into his bed. It was a bad habit of hers, getting into Ryan’s bed beside him without asking. Nothing untoward ever went on- Ryan was way too much of a gentleman for that- but sometimes it was comforting to have his warm body laid out beside her.

“Geoff wanted me to ask you a question.” He turned on his side to face her and she mimicked his movements. “I want you to say no.”

Meg frowned. “What is it?”

“A job offer. You saved Gavin and now he wants to offer you some ‘practical experience’ in the medical field.”

Meg’s eyes widened at the prospect of becoming the crews doctor, something she’d had in her head since the day her and Geoff first met. Saving people was her dream, but working as a nurse on terrible pay in the Los Santos Hospital was nothing compared to the reality of working with her new six best friends and saving _them_ from all the trouble they managed to get themselves into on a semi-regular basis.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Ryan groaned quietly. “Don’t do it Meg. Please.”

“Why? Ryan- I’ll never get another opportunity like this. This is once in a lifetime.” She whispered back. Ryan’s facial expression spoke a thousand words, and his eyes darkened like the sky before a storm.

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“So I won’t get hurt.” She teased, poking his face playfully. Ryan roughly grabbed her wrist, and all notions of teasing quickly fizzled into tension. Ryan looked at Meg’s delicate wrist in his tight grip and his face fell. He rested her hand back down on the bed and stroked the inside of her wrist gently as he let go.

“You will.” He whispered. “That’s the problem. In this life, you’ll always get hurt and I can’t let that happen to you Meg- I won’t. I’m sorry, but I…” he stopped, sucking in a deep troubled breath. Meg continued to say nothing. “I’m sorry. I… care about you, a lot.”

Meg was still and silent for what was probably way too long, staring at the embarrassment on Ryan’s face- clear for her to see even in the dark. Meg could always see Ryan, even when he wasn’t there at all.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she whispered. Ryan closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to stare into hers.

“I…” the words died on his tongue. Meg poked him gently on the shoulder.

“Don’t pussy out. Look me in the eye and tell me the truth.”

Ryan opened his eyes and sighed as she watched him shift uncomfortably where he was laid. “I… love you, alright?” he said. “I love you and I don’t want to risk ever seeing you being hurt.”

Meg grinned. “Ryan.” She whined. “You know there’s the whole of the Fake AH crew out there ready to protect me at the drop of a hat?” she asked, scooting over so her face was even closer to his. Ryan smiled.

“I know. They’d have to race me there first.”

“Does this mean I’ve got the job?” she asked. Ryan turned so he was laid on his back, staring at the ceiling. Meg sat up, and hung over him with one fist on either side of his shoulders. “Come on?” she asked with a smirk, red hair tickling at Ryan’s collarbone. She batted her eyelashes. “Pretty please?”

Ryan reached upwards, rough fingers gently tucking the falling strands of Meg’s hair behind her ears. The gesture was so tender- so shockingly intimate that it took Meg by surprise, and suddenly, the room felt darker than ever.

“I just want you to be safe. But if it’s what you want to do, it’s what you want to do. I’ll always support you.”

Meg leant backwards and laid back in the bed beside Ryan, watching his chest rise and fall. “You’d really let me do it?”

Ryan turned his face. “I’d let you do anything if you wanted it badly enough. I wasn’t lying when I said I loved you Meg. I love you more than anything.”

Meg sniffed, and the tears she wasn’t aware of manifesting slipped from her eyelids. Immediately, Ryan cuddled her to his chest, and stroked his hands through her hair.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. “I shouldn’t have told you- pretend I didn’t say anything.”

“It’s not that!” she shouted, pushing herself up and out of Ryan’s embrace to watch his face from above once again. One tear fell onto Ryan’s grey t-shirt and its twin was wiped across her hand. “Fuck no- I’m just… overwhelmed, I guess? Like… I was stabbed and so were you and then today, I saved someone’s life. I live underneath a penthouse of criminals and they’re all sort of my best friends. What even is my life anymore?” she laughed tearfully as Ryan sat up to hug her tightly again. Meg took it a step further and clambered into Ryan’s lap, thighs either side of his hips as she cried into the side of his neck.

“I love you.” She said eventually. “I love you too.”

* * *

 

Meg and Ryan’s first date was to the Los Santos pier (with Geoff’s promise not to spy on them and Ryan’s promise not to set the pier on fire.) They ate cotton-candy and rode the Ferris wheel and the rollercoaster and ended the night at the end of the peer, sat together on a bench as they watched the tide roll in back down at the beach.

“Los Santos is so beautiful.” Meg said, watching as the city lit up under the night sky. Ryan’s arm was heavy and comforting around her shoulders and she was leant against him. The night time was cold but Ryan made her feel warm.

“You’re beautiful.” Ryan replied. Meg glared at him.

“Don’t be sappy- you know I love that.”

“I know.” he grinned. “I’ll stop.”

“Never stop.”

“Never ever?” Ryan asked. Meg was about to reply when something else across the water caught her eye. She sighed and rolled her eyes.

“The crew are spying on us.”

“They’re been watching us for a while, I’m aware.” Ryan nodded. “Geoff never keeps his promises.”

“Of course he doesn’t.” she yawned. “Still, what do we care?”

“I have to live with them!”

“Ok, fine-” she laughed. “What do _I_ care.”

“I’m moving in with you.” Ryan folded his arms as Meg playfully peppered his face with kisses. “I’m moving in with Nurse Meg to get away from the endless future embarrassment from them all.”

“Nurse Meg can deal with that.” Meg flirted. “Maybe I’ll even dress up- just for you.”

“You’re such a tease.”

She grinned. “I know. You love it.”

“You love me too though- right?”

Meg kissed him once again on the cheek and then, sweetly on the lips. “Of course.” She replied once they parted. “I love you Ryan. I’m pretty glad you got stabbed and I found you.”

“The stabbing part was unpleasant but the rest was worth it.” Ryan agreed. “No promises on my side- but, if you could try and not get stabbed ever again, that would be really great.”

“I’ll try.” Meg promised, the scar at her belly tingling softly as Ryan’s finger reached out to brush against it. “I’ll try my fucking very best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question: Should I write more turnwood?

**Author's Note:**

> leave kudos/comments if you liked it? Part Two will be up soon!


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